


The Evening

by BraveKate



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Kids, M/M, Marriage, Poor Will Graham, Revelations, Slice of Life, alternative universe, botticelli is once again mentioned in vain, formal dinner is just torture with manners, let me check, managed to squeeze in one (1) cannibal pun, yep still a cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 12:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15640923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BraveKate/pseuds/BraveKate
Summary: It's a dinner party at Lecter-Grahams'. The evening's theme is autumn flowers. As for Will... Will's night starts in one life and ends in another.





	The Evening

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I've watched SotL for the first time when I was basically a kid and have been a Lecter MD fan ever since. Have a lot of thoughts and feelings about every book and movie and the show; none of them are in this work. This is just a piece of fluff, like a color study, but for words.
> 
> I'm only like five years late to this party. Buh. Whatever.

The evening’s theme is autumn flowers. Hannibal picked them out with the usual florist, and resulting lively, almost pagan in their lavishness arrangements brighten up the entire house with oranges, yellows, and reds. Will helped their daughters prepare in fashion and in character with themselves: burgundy cocktail dress for Abigail, grey austere one for Clarice (with dark red ribbon as sole adornment), and fay-like white gown, orange ombré hemming its skirt, for little Mischa. The girls got a matching flower each to put in their hair.

The preferred string quartet, most fortunately, is available to perform, and dear family friend Emilia volunteered her mezzo-soprano for the night after Hannibal called a favor in. The menu shaped out to be seasonal and simple, so only three of the five kitchen staff usually hired are necessary for help. Hannibal managed to secure his favorite servers; he also found the exact wine deemed most complimenting both before and after changing his mind and entrée with it. The evening starts out as a flawless dinner party, - once again.

Things felt perfect all throughout greetings and mingling, progressed flawlessly past appetizers and into second course. The bubble lasted up until now, when Will turns away from helping Mischa readjust her napkin, smile still on his lips, and glances across the table to where his older daughters and husband hold court. Up until now, when the iridescent surface bursts, and it dawns on him.

Will, stunned with sudden realization, lowers his gaze to a bowl of half-eaten autumn harvest soupe purée. It rhymes, he thinks, and produces a single nervous chuckle. “Hannibal the Cannibal”. Freddie Lounds would gorge herself.

Hannibal Lecter, husband of William, father of Abigail, father of Clarice, father of Mischa, was – _is_ – the Chesapeake Ripper.

Currently, the man in question is preoccupied with monologuing Jack Crawford, _the head of Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI_ , and, to Will, appears bored out of his mind. Escape is found in observing Abigail: she corrects Clarice’s way of angling a spoon to scoop up food in proper table manner. Hannibal’s tie compliments Abigail’s dress, his vest – Clarice’s. His whole suit is in contrast with Will’s own darker two-piece; his hair is immaculate, slicked back. He looks upon his daughters with what, at least, passes for genuine warmth… if one would be so inclined as to critically observe. To doubt a father whose familial devotion is a widely recognized fact.

Will puts his hand down, slow as if in a nightmare or through water, on Mischa’s soft, warm, round shoulder. It seems tiny and fragile under his palm; his thumb covers her collarbone almost entirely, his fingers reach her other little shoulder blade. Like this, he can feel her heart beating.

Mischa’s first days flash in his mind’s eye abruptly, so different from the way either Abigail or Clarice came into the family. Both older girls were delivered to the household, each in her own time, shaking, frightened; with blue eyes wide and skin pale, their dark heads never flew up in natural childish curiosity at unknown space around them. But Mischa came fresh and flushed, a bundle carried in her fathers’ arms, long awaited by loving siblings ready to nurture her precious life from the very start in hard won serenity and peace. Hannibal stayed awake night after night to hold silent vigils over the crib, afraid his baby would stop breathing somehow. How surprised and proud he acted when Abigail sung an old Lithuanian lullaby for her sister! Words left her tongue somewhat clumsily, but were clearly practiced – and that mattered more. He later talked Clarice through assisting him in bathing Mischa for the first time, so the younger sister wouldn’t feel left out.

The Chesapeake Ripper.

As the spoon incident seems to resolve itself, Hannibal’s attention wanders and his gaze turns where – and Will always took quiet pride in the fact – it’s naturally drawn: to his husband. They have a whole private language of looks and subtle nods worked out to communicate over distance and guests’ heads. There can be no freezing in panic. Will forces his hand off Mischa’s shoulder, caressing the delicate material of her gown in the process, and tilts his chin just so. This translates his need for a brief intermission. Hannibal acknowledges the signal with a barely-there smile. He gently interrupts Jack’s ongoing story with quick excuse and leans over to Abigail, whispering in her ear. He could probably tear that ear off with one bite and chew at it, before spitting out... or swallowing. Will’s tongue and lips know how sharp his teeth are; Will’s hips and shoulders know the power of that jaw. Will bore many fairy rings of neat red spots turning purple turning green to prove it. Will bore them with pleasure and pride.

Guests demand attention, Mischa – watching over. Abigail nods and puts her napkin away, stands up to shoulder hosting duties at Will’s end of the table. As the eldest, she’ll make good company for his favorite co-worker Beverly Katz, sat at his right as a thoughtful surprise from Hannibal, and provide adequate entertainment for a distant relation through Lady Murasaki sat at his left.

As Will rises, he allows his fingers to linger on Mischa’s light curls of pale gold, so soft to the touch they seem almost ethereal. Her only reaction, to Beverly’s discreet amusement, is a slow unsynchronized blink – bedtime is getting near.

Unhurried pace still allows for swift escape; the corridor’s echoey dimness shares Will’s abrupt grief. The study door is unlocked: Lecter-Grahams trust their guests and hired staff. It’s dark inside, but an orange streetlight snuck a rectangular pool through the window, and it floods the massive oak desk Will has by the bookshelves. There are sharp highlights shimmering on metallic corners of photo frames; neat battery, clad in glass-and-chrome armor, archiving Will’s life. The images are indiscernible from his position among the shadows, but does he need to see? He remembers each one perfectly.

A couple portrait, the first chapter in family Bible. The source of things to come, taken by a professional photographer, old acquaintance of Hannibal’s. In a studio: Will’s hair is still floppy, Hannibal’s face clings to remnants of distrust with its passive expression. Same year, Hannibal’s hand across Abigail’s shoulders, on hospital steps as Lecter-Grahams take her home for the first time – her foster home. Hannibal’s office harbors a similar picture, but with Will standing there instead of him. In both, Abigail holds a bouquet of flowers she received that day. Same year, their family of three formally dressed at a courthouse after the hearing. Adoption went through. As is norm now, Hannibal color-coordinated them, in charcoal gray and blue. Same year, Abigail is laughing, beyond happy, at a breakfast bar in their – this – house, and demonstrates fresh-from-the-mail adoption papers to the camera. Same year, three confirmed Chesapeake Ripper killings, two suspected; god only knows how many actual ones.

Next… probably, the wedding photo? By that time, Will had succumbed enough to his fiancé and daughter’s taming to allow any scale of ceremony they desired. Even if it involved a swarm of Lady Murasaki’s grandkids: girls carrying miniature baskets of flower petals and boys wielding sticks with flowing ribbons on top. Or floral décor of blooming wisterias, or ungodly priced champagne. Hannibal sensed Will well enough, though, to redirect champagne money towards a charitable donation in Abigail’s name. He also made an effort to serve his special – Will’s favorite – at the reception, and Will found it incredibly charming. He took pleasure in consuming what he now suspects to be the family of Aberdeen’s late corrupt mayor. There had been too much stress to enjoy the day otherwise. Travelling across Iceland by car was fun, though. It made for a successful “honeymoon”: they got to eat everywhere Hannibal planned and took turns teaching Abigail to drive. That would be the twin frame.

Next. Christmas a year later, Clarice’s first appearance: in front of a lit hearth beside a cover-worthy tree Hannibal picked out and tastefully dosed in pearly white ornaments. The girl’s dress is dark green with cream lacy collar; a boutonniere of faux mistletoe leaves and berries rests against its corner. She is shy, which translates to pouting on her face. But she let Will take the photo, followed all posing instructions impeccably, and never complained. Will used to think she felt too scared in her new home, but he knows better now. It’s just how Clarice is. She rarely shows her open smile. She does, however, in the following photo of Abigail’s graduation, - and so does Will. They dined on kidneys and liver of the filthy-mouthed Dean to celebrate that night.

The last frame in the row shows a fluffy cloud of baby blanket in her sisters’ arms, a single rosy hand peeking between the folds.

Will gave some thought recently to rounding everyone up for an updated family portrait, seeing how Mischa has gotten so big; it would go above the common room fireplace. Guess that’s not happening now. He will probably cut out some clippings from papers later, “MURDER FAMILY” headlines and all. Wouldn’t that be nice? Black-and-white dots of offset printing merging together to form the whole messy, macabre picture.

Is it possible that the encephalitis has returned? Can everything be explained away by dementia? Paranoia? Delusion?

Kitchen, a buzzing hub of activity, is just around the corner, and it hides the answer inside its guts.

The staff greet Will with brief smiles, eager to receive some notes from their Maestro. How is everything going? Are there any instructions? The meal is perfection incarnate, Will assures. Post-dining applause from the assembly is a certainty already. Well, what does Mr. Graham require, in such case? Perhaps, a glass of homebrew to replace the wine? A premature dessert for one of the girls?

They’re not used to Will’s presence in the tranches, see. Kitchen is entirely Hannibal’s domain. Has always been. He’s the chief and the _Premier Maître_ around here. The gourmet. The butcher.

Nothing, Will lies. I just needed a moment.

Like magic, the words work – he’s ignored after, all present well aware of his numerous issues. He measures the floor with heavy steps, interrupting the foot traffic, but is obliged. The sounds, below the culinary cacophony, are flat. Flat-flat-flat. Until they’re not. Until they become cavernous, reaching further down.

Here lies Will’s answer, then; the truth in a concrete den. Like a chthonic monster, it hibernated underneath the thin veneer of his entire existence and all the happiness contained in it.

He goes outside, where the low-hung moon is hiding behind a silvery veil, and breathes in the rain-sweet air. Local chill always offends his Southern sensibilities; that’s alright. It’s city-quiet in that way where cars can be heard running close by at all times. He misses the crickets of Wolf Trap. That’s alright as well. He checks on the dogs in their backyard enclosure; Winston’s tail and Mentaiko’s nose peek out of the fancy doghouse Hannibal ordered for them. A big gesture from his pedantic soul: no more than two, and never on the second floor. True love, Beverly says.

The office door clicks when he gently pushes it closed on the way back, cutting his whole life in two. The Before, that has just ended. And what starts now – The After.

***

Until Hannibal came along, Will’s life was a miserable, if spectacular, mess. He endured a glum childhood: mother dearest left for a man she loved more than Will’s father and got busy making babies she loved more than Will. Before any closure could be gained, the woman died to be preserved as she lived – untouchable, withdrawn. Will’s father was first a frugal grump, and later a cheap, mean drunk. Will’s relationship history reveals a chain of trash fires, the kind that brings out the ugliest in both parties. (Funny thing is, he could understand them all perfectly, could _empathize_ … but it made nothing acceptable.) His education was a torture, his work an unremarkable battlefield.

Of course, everything changed.

Will knew Hannibal suddenly, violently – a punch to the gut. He consulted on Silvestri case, and Jack invited his friend, a “good doctor”, along for the arrest, completely on a whim. That’s how they connected: over a bleeding body, Hannibal’s hand inside of it, red up to the elbow, his eyes to match. Will stared, and once he started he just. Couldn’t stop. 

He fell in love with Hannibal in a very similar fashion. On an autumn evening much like this one. At a breakfast bar Alana cradled a weizen beer glass, and Will sipped on two fingers of whiskey beside her. They enjoyed the performance that was Hannibal preparing a Khmer dessert: elaborately coaxing young coconuts to peek from their green flesh with a meat cleaver, chopping the resulting lids off in one precise movement. He poured the juice out into a stainless steel basin and, while it boiled with sugar and agar-agar, extracted coconut milk manually. They ran a lively, involved discussion, he and Alana, but Will was unable to follow. The doctor’s hands working and squeezing coconut shavings mesmerized him. Tissue, sinew, muscle, bone, blood vessels. It was messy work. After a month of acquaintance Hannibal’s politely aloof personality almost managed to erase the initial vivid picture of their first meeting, its gory details. 

Even back then, the word of Lecter’s renown dinner parties had reached Will, but he started to imagine them as detached, sterile affairs akin to industrial-scale cooking. White coats, caps, overshoes; lab-like. In his imagination, Hannibal would lord over hunched sous chefs and point at things from distance. The reality was crushing. The doctor cooked in the way of ancestors, which many around the world still preferred as they lit fires under open skies and spread their ingredients before the flames, sitting on the ground. Unafraid to get dirty, unafraid to start things from scratch. Will loved that, and, thus, Will loved Hannibal fully.

Loved how hands-on Hannibal was. Is.

If only he had known the full extent of it in the beginning, as he does now.

Since Hannibal, Will’s (numbered) days were charmed. Happiness proved to be blinding, numbing: no wonder Will never sought is out while it evaded him, and succumbed so fully once it came knocking. He even relaxed, after a while. Forgot the other, suspended shoe. Will takes pride in his parental and professional achievements nowadays, but even those he mostly ascribes to Hannibal. Without the quiet haven he created for Will’s tortured mind, the honey-hued sanctuary of their shared home, without his foundation of support Will would never have achieved the stability needed to brace his preferred carrier field or the challenges of fatherhood.

The forgotten shoe is about to drop and shatter, crystalline. What a sad Cinderella story.

***

Everything comes down to a hackneyed “act natural”. Which is hard, very much so, as is expected. Will used to train back in his boyhood days, between raiding bushes through heavy, moist Louisiana heat and covering from sticks and stones of other, not dirt-poor kids, who had likewise other, sober fathers. Do not think of an elephant. Do not think of an elephant, Will. Do _not_.

And it’s predictably harder when said monstrous, mutated hulking creature steals all the air from the room.

The evening drags like rusty nails across skin, digging in and leaving bleeding wounds behind. The sensation stretches. Each course makes time’s metallic teeth sink deeper. Will needs to act quickly, before the infection spreads, settles in. But he must also…

Act natural. Right.

A slice of rôti de boeuf en croute leaks bloody juices that form a pink ring on Will’s plate. It smells divine and tastes accordingly when bitten into. So soft. They had a slew of murders whip through the county last month. Enough for a dinner party. Will wonders idly which one he just chewed and swallowed.

The nanny- Oh, no, beg forgiveness; the _governess_ comes for Mischa during dessert, and Will has to let his youngest go. Has to stop from clutching her tiny body for dear life in sheer horror of potential loss. Has to remember that the goodbyes he kisses into her hooded eyelids and silky cheeks are temporary, until later, and not the final ones. Hysteria would be improper. Not a natural act.

When Hannibal mirrors Will’s actions, Mischa even tinier against his bulkier, broader figure, the rusty nails penetrate Will’s very soul. A scream needs to be gulped down with warm cider served beside salted caramel tart.

Praise any deity available, skulking with Jack from corner to corner is a pretty normal behavior for Will.

“Keep your phone on you,” he begs through a plastic smile. “And keep this quiet.”

Jack’s eyebrows fly up, but he nods in agreement. “You got it. Want to share?”

“I know who the Reaper is.”

A pause. “Go on.”

“His lair is under my kitchen.”

Dots successfully connected, Jack reeks of disbelief at first, but fast thought is already flickering behind his sharp dark gaze. Known facts fit in their predestined places atop educated speculation of the past decade. Jack’s expressive mouth carries the brunt of resulting frown; greyish soul patch under it distorts. Perspiration covers his round face, undercrossing the scarred texture of the cheeks. He’s a bigger man, stocky, and could most likely hold his own against Hannibal, but Will’s mirror-mind still catches the prick of icy fear that festers beneath his xiphisternum.

“I need to make sure my daughters are safe, first,” Will says evenly. “I’ll call you the moment it’s clear.”

“You have two hours after the last guest leaves,” Jack promises. “Then we storm in.”

He bulldozers away, towards Bella, who’s a regal beacon over the thinning crowd, the conqueror of death in a beaded golden gele for a halo, to shield her from getting devoured.

“All the better. That’s enough shop talk.”

Will spins to find his husband standing there, radiant and solid. Personal space is an ambiguous term between them, and Hannibal is just a hair too close. Will never needed to read into that before. So he pretends he doesn’t, simply looks up.

“The rôti de boeuf was lovely.”

“Good. It cost an arm and a leg.”

Hannibal is so unalike anyone Will has ever had. The man is stunning. Beautiful in the way of Early Renaissance paintings, before proper anatomy and proportion subjugated the body on canvas. Before realistic perfection ruined true magnificence. Beautiful in a way Botticelli’s Venus is: with her eyes not quite on the same axis, her figure ready to capsize, her very symbolic shoulders and disproportionate forearms. Unique beauty with a fatal flaw.

“It was very thoughtful of you to sit Beverly next to me,” Will says, polite. Always polite. Hannibal trained manners into him. “And Bedelia as far away as the table would stretch. Thank you.” It’s a smart move to mention Dr. Du Maurier, the only ex he’s notoriously still jealous of. Pleasing to one’s ego.

“I accept and thank you in return,” his husband answers and – it’s a tick of his – takes a deep breath, visibly deciding where to bestow his touch. It’s always Will’s nape. Will has been wearing his hair sleeked up and away from the face since encephalitis dissipated for good. Because that’s how Hannibal likes it. The longest strands curl at the base of his neck, right above the collar, and Hannibal loves to pinch them between his thumb and forefinger, tagging gently. “You shone tonight, Will, and I am immensely grateful. Now go up and rest and don’t worry about a thing. We shall make quick work of it downstairs.” Will experiences an understandable feeling one gets when faced with leaving a warm, cozy bed on a particularly frosty morning. Un-desire to wake up and endure the cold. And what a cold it will be, what a storm.

“Sure. As you wish.”

That’s where Hannibal keeps his spare medical kit, after all.

It’s easy enough to convince a sleepy, pajama-clad Clarice that staying with Mischa across the hall is her idea. The spacious bedroom used to host Hannibal’s office; many a family relic was displayed here at the time, thus it’s the only one in the house with a lock on the outside. There’s no spare key as far as Will knows, and the original rests in his pocket.

He dismisses the governess. Mischa’s already changed and tacked in, snoring softly under a string of fairy lights, her tiny button nose a sliver away from the wilted helenium crushed in her grip. He pries it away. Delicate petals carry dark filigree of creases; he wanted to press it, earlier. Too late now. Clarice’s chrysanthemum got transferred to an Erlenmeyer flask, Zeller’s gift from way back when Hannibal brought her over for lunch one day. Will thrusts Mischa’s destroyed sun in the water alongside it. It won’t survive till the morning.

“You want to share the bed, or does the tent look more fun?” He asks Clarice calmly, pointing at the pillow-stuffed teepee.

The decision is swift. “Bed.” She hugs her lamb plushie closer and starts scaling the matrass. An older child would seem bigger next to little Mischa, but Hannibal insisted on a full-sized bed. It keeps things in perspective. They’re both so, so small-

That primeval spot between shoulder blades, nearly atrophied sentry against predators, warns Will of danger.

“Daddy, what are you doing?” Smiling Abigail glides around the corner, burgundy celosia still braided among brunette strands. Another epiphany: the flower looks like a bloodied brain under calmer upstairs lights.

“Oh, nothing special,” he answers, pulse fluttering. “A bit of fun. You’re just in time, actually. Could you watch after Clarice until she drifts off completely?”

Anxiety used to torture Clarice with horrible night terrors it conjured. Some time and considerable effort went into weaning her off a sleeping companion, and a night light remains a necessity. Will propagated this particular parenting decision. It’s unnatural for him to break the enforced rules so lightly. 

Busted.

There are clearly cracks in his façade. Abigail’s befreckled heart-shaped face distorts in a familiar way. Hannibal’s does the same. It relaxes too much and freezes into a blank mask. The big round eyes overtaking it, glass chips of clearest blue, make her a gorgeous clockwork doll. The doorframe serves as an almost perfect box. Will takes Abigail fishing regularly, but hunting is what she has always known. A vision comes to him, of shiny black feathers forming a mantle across porcelain shoulders. The contrast is spectacular and goes so well with her dress. As if the wendigo shed a part of its plumage specifically to mark its champion.

From one psychopathic owner to another, windup mechanism ready to receive the new key. 

“Daddy?” She asks, toeing the threshold. She’s a healthy young woman, but obviously much more petite than Hannibal. Half the dose will suffice. Remember that, Will.

He wants this to be a dream. One of Clarice’s nightmares. “Come inside, please,” he says. Wrong. Too flat. The air crackles with tension.

“Dad!” Abigail screams suddenly down the hall, voice soaring to those penetrating, urgent notes. For volume only: not much fear comes through. 

“Abigail! Come inside!”

“Dad!!”

Will, heart in his throat, grabs one shoulder and plunges the syringe into its twin. Needle enters right at the edge of the lace. She tries to tear away, but he’s already pressing down; her forceful motions become helpless twitching more or less immediately. A dull thud of the body against carpet, fall barely broken by his grip, will haunt him forever. He has to _drag_ her in, like a sack.

“Daddy?” One of the confused blanket-wrapped lumps on the bed asks.

“Everything’s fine, pipsqueak. Close your eyes. Abigail thought she saw something, but she’s asleep now, too.” His voice keeps steady; he stopped in time. She needs to be turned on her side to clear the airways and prevent chocking if vomit comes. Her celosia is plucked out and deposited into the improvised vase, closer to its sisters. Will brusquely steps outside and shuts the door. The burnished lock clicks in anger when he turns it, but remains silent while he frees and throws the key away through a window and into the night. One final spark; no landing sound.

No sound whatsoever from downstairs, in fact. Both Marlene and Jacques would be gone by now. Will makes his call.

He knew mostly visual and auditory people throughout his life, Hannibal being the routine rare exception. Olfactory is his prime sense. He always sniffs food and drink first before digging in or taking a sip. In fact, it raises him in the mornings, with blind explanations of, “It smelled like bacon” and “I sense coffee”. He’s able to control a reaction to any tantalizing picture or touch, unmoved like a pillar, but physical proximity gets to him eventually, when the air between him and Will becomes heavy and saturated. His nostrils flare, causing his irises to blow out and flood the maroon with black. He ends every long kiss with pressing close to inhale sharply against Will’s temple. Before Will’s scent drenches a pillowcase, he can’t stay asleep if left alone in their bed. He likes to sit behind Will when they’re intimate, holding him close, crushing his ribs with one arm while the other works tirelessly to give his lover completion; he puts his forehead just behind Will’s ear and lets him hear every greedy inhale, feel every hot exhale.

Will shivers, watching his husband ascend the staircase slowly, methodically. He’ll sense the chemicals from his code-protected medical cabinet, the salt of tears and adrenaline-spiked sweat, the blood of a scratch Abigail left as she went down.

Hannibal stops, a masterpiece: posture perfect, jacket lost and collar open, sleeves at the elbows, and hair falling free. “So,” he says. “You have finally seen.”

***

Beverly will touch the flowers later, lift the wilted one with the butt end of her pen. Reflect absent-mindedly on how appealing the colors looked against one another. The heavy head of it will slip the plastic eventually and fall again, loosing specks of pollen and a petal in the process.

Behind her back, Zeller will say, pained: “Can you fucking believe it?” And Price will echo: “Such a fucking shame.”

She won’t say a thing.

***

_“Have you ever considered, Will, that this “betrayal”, as you put it, is not an end? That there is no lie, but truth? And a beginning?”_

_“Maybe in another world. But not in this one.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story! <3
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** English is not my first language, and it has consequences.


End file.
